The Negotiator (Harbor City 1)

Soft and hard they melded together. Touching. Seeking. Getting lost in each other. He hadn’t made out fully clothed on a couch since…fuck he couldn’t remember right now. He barely recalled his own name. Her T-shirt that had seemed so thin and inconsequential before was like an iron wall between them. Still, he glided one palm up from her glorious ass, over the flare of her hip, and between their bodies so he could cup her breast, flicking his thumb across her hard nipple. She gasped against his mouth and groaned as her body arched beneath him.

The move left the long column of her throat exposed. He kissed and nipped his way down, loving every moan, every soft sigh she made as he did so. Echoing his mouth’s direction, he released her nipple and skimmed his fingers across her flat

stomach, past the waistband of her yoga pants, and to the juncture of her thighs.

“You are so hot and wet for me that I can feel it through this sorry excuse for a pair of pants,” he murmured against the spot where her neck met her shoulder as he fought the urge to give in to his primal side and rip the damn pants in two.

“It was the show,” she said, her own hands busy roaming his chest. “DIY gets my motor all revved up.”

Caught between his frustration at the lack of skin-to-skin contact and his refusal to stop touching her any way he could, Sawyer stilled above Clover. She was a hot, seductive mess. Her hair was half out of her bun. Her brown eyes had gone hazy, and her kiss-swollen lips were parted, waiting for more—and he wanted to give her everything she wanted.

“Does that mean you’re going to scream out ‘paint stripper’ when I make you come so hard your toes curl?” He rubbed the heel of his palm against her core, making sure to angle it so he hit just the right spot as he circled.

Her teeth came down on her bottom lip and she made a mewling that sounded like a mix of torture and bliss that he was way too familiar with at the moment.

“You’re just going to have to find out for yourself.” She took a long, steadying breath, then pushed a hand against his chest. “But not tonight.”

If his cock could have cried out in protest at that moment, it would have. Instead, Sawyer raised himself up and off of her, too many questions in his head to verbalize a single one of them.

She rolled up into a sitting position, looking disheveled and way more satisfied than a woman who hadn’t had an orgasm should. “We’re going to need to adjust the contract.”

“Napkin doodles aren’t a contract,” he said, reason roaring back to the forefront as blood started pumping north again. “And this wasn’t a good idea.”

“Maybe not, but it was hot,” she said, unabashedly. “Look, I’m attracted to you. Unless there’s a bazooka in your jean’s pocket, I’d say you’re attracted to me. So why not have a little fun and enjoy ourselves until I leave for Australia?”

Yes! His cock answered. No! His brain countered. “Things’ll get messy.”

“Life’s messy.” She shrugged her shoulders. “That’s part of the fun.”

“Is everything just one big adventure for you?”

“It beats the alternative.”

“And what’s that?”

She screwed up her mouth, looking like she’d just swallowed rotten milk. “Living my life trapped in one place and eating apple pie every Sunday even though I hate it because the man I married loves it.”

Once again, when it came to Clover, he was at a total fucking loss. “I have no idea what to do with that.”

“You’re not supposed to.” She got up off the couch, looming over where he lay. “Think about my proposition. Six weeks of friendly banging. No one gets hurt. Anyway, it’ll be a more authentic lie then, too. A successful fake engagement is all about the details.” She leaned down and brushed her lips across his in a quick kiss. “Be ready to go at eight tomorrow morning.”

His brain was pudding. “Where?”

“The flea market where we’re going to get whatever I pick because you lost the bet.” She patted him on the cheek and winked. “Good night.”

From the couch, Sawyer watched her saunter away to her bedroom, hypnotized by the sway of her hips under that oversize T-shirt. A month and a half of touching and tasting her, taking her up against the wall or anywhere else they wanted. It was nuts. It was bad news. It had him aching and hard enough that a stiff breeze would make him come in his pants. The fact that he was even considering it was a bad sign for his sanity.

Who are you kidding, chump? You were in total agreement the moment she said out loud what you’d been thinking in your fucked-up head.

Who was it who said be careful what you wish for? A fucking genius, that’s who. He’d be damned lucky if he made it the whole night through without knocking on her door. The idea of just giving in was almost too tempting to resist.

Chapter Ten

The next morning, Clover was still cursing herself for not shaving during the past three days. She was into not being a slave to the industrial beauty complex as much as the next woman, but getting it on for the first time with Sawyer while her legs resembled a Carolina pine forest was not going to happen. She was all for adventure. What she wasn’t down for was giving Sawyer leg burn. So that meant she spent the night imagining her fake fiancé buck naked instead of actually getting to see the real thing, because nothing but stubbly legs was strong enough to pull her off his lap last night.

She had a good imagination, but she was beyond tired of using it, especially after feeling him pressed against her on the couch last night. Her heart thundered in her chest. Clover wanted the real thing.

Thanks to the insane shower—four, yes four, shower heads positioned above, behind, beside, and in front of her—she was smooth from her toes to her waist and lotioned up to a state of supreme softness. Catching her reflection in the mirror with her hair, wavy from the water, hanging past her bare shoulders, she jolted to a stop. With her eyelashes darkened by mascara and lightly lined in smoke-gray, she looked more than just a little bit like a younger version of her mother. It was enough to make her reach for the makeup remover in the medicine cabinet, but she stopped her hand halfway to its destination. Not for the first time, she wondered what her mother had been like before she’d gotten married, had kids, and settled into a life of small-town hell. There had been hints—throwaway comments about college trips to London, a summer spent road tripping, and the fact that just the word “Miami” made her mom turn six shades of red—that there was more to Laura Lee than hate-eating apple pie and pretending to be interested in the goings-on at the Moose Lodge.